Chapter 1

In the seventh year of my marriage, I was set to inherit the 26.6 billion fortune my grandmother left behind.

Ethan Cole, the lawyer, sat across from me and slid a stack of documents over. "Ms. Grant, once you sign these, the Grant Hotel Group and all the real estate will officially be transferred to your name."

I held the pen, but my mind was on Richard Lane.

He said he was flying back tonight and would bring me a limited-edition watch. After seven years of dating and seven years of marriage, he still spoiled me as he always had.

"Ms. Grant?" Ethan's voice held a note of hesitation. "There's something I need to confirm with you."

I looked up.

He pushed his glasses up, his expression complicated. "To process the inheritance, I need your marriage certificate, but..."

"But what?" I asked.

"I pulled the City Hall records." He turned his laptop toward me. "According to the records, your current legal status is unmarried."

The screen showed a screenshot from the marriage registry.

Name: Victoria Grant.

Marital Status: Unmarried.

I stared at those words for a long time, until my eyes began to sting.

"That's impossible." My voice was calm, so calm it barely sounded like mine. "Richard and I got our marriage certificate seven years ago.

"He went to get it the day after our wedding. He said he felt bad that I hadn't slept the night before and didn't want me to make the trip."

Ethan was silent for a few seconds before pulling up another record.

"Mr. Lane did register a marriage seven years ago," he said. "But the spouse listed wasn't you. It was Sophie Lane."

Sophie Lane, the Lane family chauffeur's daughter, the woman who always wore simple dresses, talked in a soft voice, and greeted with perfect manners every time she saw me.

"The marriage was registered on October 8, seven years ago." Ethan's voice sounded distant and unreal. "That was the day after your wedding to Mr. Lane."

I could hear my own heartbeat. It was slow and heavy.

"Ms. Grant?" Ethan looked at me. "Are you alright?"

I lowered my head, looking at the diamond ring on my ring finger.

Richard designed it himself, saying it was one of a kind, the only one in the world.

It turned out there were two, one on my hand, one on Sophie's.

My phone vibrated.

Richard's message flashed on my screen: [Tori, I got you the limited-edition watch, only 10 in the world. The plane landed. I'll swing by the office first, then hurry home to you. Miss you.]

Attached was a photo of the watch box sitting on a first-class seat, right beside a half-finished glass of red wine.

When I stared at that photo, something suddenly hit me.

Earlier today, Sophie posted on her feed a shot of the airport lounge's huge windows, captioned: [First time in first class. The view is amazing.]

I even gave it a like without thinking.

'So that's the truth,' I thought.

"Mr. Cole," I heard myself say, "keep going with the inheritance. Sell everything."

"Everything?" He looked shocked. "The Grant Hotel Group was your grandmother's life's work for 60 years"

"Sell it," I cut him off. "Leave nothing behind."

When I stepped out of the law firm, the night air in Bayview City was thick with a salty, humid breeze.

I grabbed a cab and headed straight for the airport, not to meet Richard, but to see it with my own eyes.

The car raced down the highway, and I pressed my forehead to the window, letting memories from the past 26 years flicker through my mind like a movie reel.

Richard and I had been together since we were kids.

He was two months older, and our families had been close forever. When I was little, a neighbor boy shoved me to the ground. Richard stormed over, made the kid cry, and ended up with a cut on his forehead that became a scar.

Back in high school, my dad wanted to send me to the Roseford. Richard found out and, for a whole week, got up at four in the morning every day, standing outside my house holding a handwritten letter.

By the seventh day, he was burning up with a 104 °F fever. Even in the hospital, he kept mumbling, "Victoria can't leave"

My mom sighed and told me, "That boy really likes you. If you want to stay, then stay."

When I was 22 years old, we had our wedding.

Bayview Peninsula Hotel attracted the attention of everyone in the city.

When we exchanged rings, he stood before 800 guests and said, "I, Richard Lane, will love Victoria Grant and only her for the rest of my life."

I cried so hard my makeup was a mess.

I thought I was the luckiest woman alive, but it turned out that I was nothing at all.

The taxi pulled up outside the airport arrivals hall.

I stood in the crowd, eyes locked on the exit.

15 minutes later, he showed up.

Richard was in a dark gray coat, his 6'1" height making him impossible to miss. Sharp features, a chiseled jaw, and that confident stride. He drew every eye in the place.

He wasn't alone.

Sophie was right there with him, wearing a light blue knit sweater, her hair casually tied back. She looked so gentle and quiet.

They walked side by side, half a step apart.

Then Richard stopped.

He turned, slipped his arm around her waist, leaned down, and pressed his lips to her forehead, then slowly trailed them lower.

That kiss lasted forever.

Long enough for people nearby to start snapping photos. Long enough for me to bite my lip until I tasted blood.

That was when I finally believed it.

After the kiss, Richard pulled out his phone, glanced at the screen, then turned it off.

It was the message I'd sent: "What time will you be home? I made your favorite."

I turned and walked away.

I didn't rush over to confront him, nor lose my cool.

26 years of loving him taught me one thing: when the truth was this brutal, crying wouldn't help.